


see how deep the bullet lies

by archekoeln



Category: Miraculous Ladybug
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Miraculous, Angst, Detective!Nathalie, Drunk Sex, F/M, Implied Non-Consensual Drunk Sex, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Infidelity, Minor Character Death, Nathalie Sancoeur-centric, Prosecutor!Gabriel, Sexual Content, non-consensual by virtue of the fact that 1 is drunk and the other is n o t, par for the course with this ship tbh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-19
Updated: 2020-07-19
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:41:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25263241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/archekoeln/pseuds/archekoeln
Summary: “This shouldn’t happen again,” he tells her a week later.“Yes sir,” she replies.
Relationships: Emilie Agreste/Gabriel Agreste | Papillon | Hawk Moth, Gabriel Agreste | Papillon | Hawk Moth/Nathalie Sancoeur
Comments: 9
Kudos: 36





	see how deep the bullet lies

**Author's Note:**

> this spiraled from 'i want to try writing smut' to 'i can't believe I can't write smut at all'. also because someone mentioned an aa au like some time ago and my tiny gremlin brain jumped up and down.
> 
> please heed the warnings! nothing is ever explicitly stated and the one instance of the 'non-consensual sex' tag is loosely implied.
> 
> unbeta'd! the title is from 'running up that hill' by kate bush.

Nathalie eyes the glass of scotch in his hand. Empty—

“Sir,” she coughs. The figure by the windowsill doesn’t react to her at all. Her eyes wander to his desk, and already she can feel an ache at the back of her head.

—just like the five bottles on his desk.

She sighs. Prosecutor Agreste has had problems with drinking in the past and she knows how he has to limit himself to one bottle. Most of the time, it is easy to remind him of that rule. 

But, she also knows that he was rattled by the fact that Adrien will be on the witness stand tomorrow, because the defense brought _his_ name up, and now, he has opened enough bottles for her to need to intervene (on his behalf, and on the behalf of his wife, of course).

Why would the defense bring up Prosecutor Agreste’s son, if not to indict him of murder, to pass the buck from the, obviously guilty, defendant?

The declaration only causes the courtroom to erupt in a flurry of panic and chaos, and Nathalie, standing by the door, sees the man’s face contorted with rage, angry lines etched across his, already, stern expression.

“Sir,” Nathalie repeats, striding past the case files littering the floor. Each step is careful, deliberate, precise— the good prosecutor won’t sign her paycheck if he finds a shoe print on one of his files. “I think that’s enough.” A hand plucks away the glass from his own, and for a short moment, he stares at his open palm, brows furrowed, almost as though wondering where his drink might be. 

Nathalie watches as he slowly glances at the floor, at his shoes, maybe expecting to have dropped it. When that reveals clean, unsoaked oxfords, Prosecutor Agreste finally looks up and notices her presence.

He blinks, a slow process, as Nathalie stands her ground, holding onto his glass of scotch. She summons the impassivity her job demands of her, eyes boring into his. He blinks again, recognition dawning his features.

“Nathalie,” he murmurs, forgetting that they are still at his office. Nathalie’s lips purse upon hearing her name but says nothing of that fact as he closes his eyes. The ticking of his grandfather clock echoes in her head and Nathalie is left to wonder what else is going through his thoughts, other than Adrien’s attendance in tomorrow’s trial.

* * *

Hours pass them. Again, Nathalie is at the precipice of despair.

_How dare you leave me in this predicament?_

“Sir,” Nathalie calls him for the umpteenth time that day, wondering if she should have left to gather evidence when he asked her of it _instead_ of doing it beforehand like the good employee that she was. She curses her hardworking nature— if she were anything like her fellow detectives, she would have left at six on the dot, letting the good prosecutor continue until morning if he so wished.

Ah, but she didn’t. 

Prosecutor Agreste doesn’t stir even as she continuously calls him, already deep in the throes of slumber. He looks peaceful like that, softer, despite the tired lines drawn on his features, courtesy of his work and the maddening case for tomorrow. 

In the dim light of the antique lamp he treasures, she watches him. Even the shadows draw him like someone else, like he _isn’t_ the untouchable prosecutor striking fear into the hearts of criminals. Ink smears across his cheek (he will undoubtedly fume when he sees the smudging on the paper) and yet, for one short moment, Nathalie gets the urge to wipe it away. 

She doesn’t, of course. Didn’t, because Prosecutor Agreste wasn’t, wouldn’t allow her.

Instead, she thinks of the afternoon spent reviewing evidence, getting him to drink water instead of another glass of scotch, watching him practice and check and double-check everything for tomorrow.

Every little word in his case files scrutinized; every little piece of evidence checked thoroughly; every sentence perfected— his poses, his diction, his gestures.

And of course, as befitting the main detective of the case (and the only one who ever worked willingly under him), she has already rehearsed what to say. The evidence told her as much. Going through them while listening to him as he connected the dots to create an overarching story cemented her understanding of the event.

Then, if everything was said and done, why was she still in his office and not on her way home?

_Because he’s asleep, Nathalie. He’s asleep and you should rest._

Maybe if she bothers him enough, he will get up and yell at her. At least she could go home after sending _him_ home. Lord knows she needs the rest. Proper rest.

They both do.

His phone chimes with the unique ringtone he set for his wife, and for a moment, Nathalie thinks to answer. Madame Agreste will know what to do with her husband— send his actual bodyguard, perhaps, and drag him back to their estate. Nathalie, of course, will be left alone to hail a taxi to her small apartment, _because the wife of your boss never takes kindly to you spending the night with him, right? How many times has she said so, her voice a pitch higher than you remember?_

But just _seeing_ Madame Agreste’s name drives Nathalie to ignore the phone. She would rather stay than talk to the woman, thank you very much.

The couch is comfortable enough for her, once she decides to stay. Her bones ache and her feet are sore from standing too long. Before long, before she can even stop herself, she has dozed off to the quiet of the early morning.

* * *

They wake together, on his couch, and the first thing she hears is a loud gasp and feet shuffling. She blinks herself awake, rubbing away stardust as the prosecutor stumbles away from her grasp. Nathalie feels the coldness gather by her side when he leaves and she doesn’t second guess the reason _why._

“I didn’t, I—” he stutters out, unable to form a coherent thought, logic evading his senses. Terror grips him with how she blinks, unable to process whatever was happening.

It lasts for about ten seconds.

Maybe she should be pleased. To cause him this reaction was a rarity.

She wasn’t.

“Nothing happened sir,” she says if only to dissuade him from the spiraling thoughts he seemed keen on having. Her voice is still thick with sleep but her brain is now, already, running a million miles a minute. She sits up, feeling for her legs against the plush of his too expensive couch. “You were quite drunk yesterday and, while I would have woken you up, you weren’t budging. I doubt you’d like the other prosecutors to know how you passed out on your desk.”

He _has_ noticed her ignorance of the real issue at hand (of sleeping on the couch _together;_ how big it was for the both of them, how they both handled sleeping in close proximity, how they _fit_ without realizing; how she blatantly lied because _hadn’t she just said that he had slept on his desk?_ ) but for all his posturing about finding the absolute truth, he doesn't push her. 

She considers it a victory. 

Maybe he will forget about it.

Doubtful, but it cost her nothing to dream.

“Of course,” he finally says, conceding to her explanation. Prosecutor Agreste closes his eyes and repeats himself, “of course, if it’s as you say,” turning away to give her an ounce of privacy. Maybe. She thinks about how her hair is disheveled and her clothes are rumpled, how her face is smeared with day-old make-up, and still stark with her lethargy, so of course, _of course_ , he would immediately jump to that conclusion. 

Prosecutors are wont to assume. It was their job.

Nathalie tries to smother the wrinkles of her blazer, breathing deep. The smell of alcohol lingered in the stale air, as did the remnants of his cologne. A little too much, in her opinion, almost a thick haze that she waded through each morning in order to reach his desk.

Not that she can ever verbalize those thoughts, even to her colleagues at the precinct. Better to keep at the man’s good side.

But that's beside the point.

“If you’ll excuse me, sir,” she says, standing up. “It’s still early enough that no one’s here yet. You may be able to get out with minimal damage to your reputation.” Surprisingly, her hands aren’t shaking with fear, being proactive instead of waiting for his orders. “I’ll get the car ready.”

He watches her leave. The door closes behind her with a click.

* * *

In the end, the defense attorney does not indict Adrien.

In the end, the defendant was guilty.

In the end, Prosecutor Agreste wins his case.

In the end, he celebrates with his family, as documented by the press.

In the end, they don’t talk about the moment shared in his office, where she was nestled between his head and shoulder blades; where her hands settled by his chest; where she slept contentedly, dreamless and peaceful.

* * *

She is so tired that sometimes, living felt like a chore. Exhausting, Unfulfilling. 

She knows how she used to enjoy routines; the repetitiveness of everything she does when the quiet settles over them at the office. Or how she enjoys challenges, of putting together a working statement detailing the crime; of gathering evidence; talking to the people, guessing who is and who isn’t supposed to be the important link to a case.

Nathalie wonders just what feels heavy on her shoulders and her back; what could make her bones ache at the thought of work.

On the other side of the bleak meadow, Nathalie observes, the exact same thing is, curiously, happening to Prosecutor Agreste.

It never looks like it, but Nathalie has worked with him for so long that she’s able to tell if something is _wrong_. It is difficult to tell, with the curve of his lips always a warning; with his mood always shifting; with his voice always a bit too quiet for any normal intern to follow, not when they know that a beratement will soon come out of his mouth.

By virtue of their close proximity to each other, and the fact that she has been the only detective he actually calls to, Nathalie has learned all of his mannerisms and his tells. 

So when he watches instead of reprimands, when he silently takes in information instead of speaking, _something_ must be wrong.

Nathalie’s conclusion ends up being right when Prosecutor Agreste asks her not to drive him home one night, stating paperwork for his latest case. The way his eyes are half-shut when he tells her, the way he doesn’t seem to care that she’s _staring_ as he dismisses her.

It is also commonly known (only to Nathalie) that Prosecutor Agreste often retreats to the safety of his office whenever he and Madame Agreste fight.

No one can prove that they fight, however. The world never sees that side of their relationship. Out of the door, they are happy and content. They are _perfect._

Nathalie leaves as she’s told to. There really isn’t anything she can do.

* * *

One night, despite her brain telling her to go home, Nathalie doesn’t leave him alone.

Instead, she stays. They talk. They talk. They start drinking. They settle beside each other on the floor of his office, watching the ticking of the clock as it counts down to midnight. 

She’s already teetering on the edge of sobriety and drunkenness, taking large swigs of Prosecutor Agreste— no, of _Gabriel’s_ too expensive to name moonshine. For a moment, she thinks of the cheap, handmade brews drunk behind old log houses in the woods, far from the cities of London or Paris— or maybe her sense of adventure pushed her to travel Europe with as much gusto as she can manage, only nineteen and already raring to take the world by storm.

But she ends up in Paris anyway, _again,_ stuck in the middle of law enforcement she so decidedly hated with a passion while growing up, working past actual hours because her boss was also someone who she fancied not so long ago, before finding out that he had a wife and a son and a family and everything she wishes she had. 

Even though she realizes later on, that, Emilie Agreste is nowhere near the pinnacle of perfection that the media portrays her to be.

Somehow, that is a breath of fresh air. _Somehow,_ she thinks it will justify everything.

 _It does not. Will not. Never will._

Nathalie doesn’t even remember who starts it, and yet, Nathalie never thinks of stopping.

There has always been something between them, left alone to grow, to blossom into something else, something new. A feeling that Emilie had the foresight to _see_ when everyone else was blind.

Emilie had been right, all along, to attempt to chase her away from Prosecutor Agreste’s good graces.

Maybe she will regret it in the morning, but the taste of his tongue on hers, roaming along the ridges of her teeth and the open space of her mouth, when they share passion and intensity— well, Nathalie cherishes it. She holds it close, by the hole she calls her heart, forced between the spaces between her ribs and molded to fill them. 

It escalates, and before they know it, they are at the edge of wanting each other, and whether they are ready or not for it (for the consequences), they instead throw caution to the wind. 

When he is poised to enter her, his tip lightly kissing her already flooding lips, Nathalie closes her eyes. She breathes in, deeply, exhales, and opens her eyes, watching the red flush on Gabriel’s face, concentration gnawing the sharp steep of his cheekbones, mouth agape. His eyes soon crinkle with delight at her expression, smiling and elated and _wanting_ , and then, with a push, slow and tantalizing and _tight,_ she moans.

It feels like it should and it fills her with guilt and contentment all at once, with heat pooling deep in her belly, with her heart bursting. Gabriel’s hands hold onto her hips, gripping, and she knows it will bruise, will bloom a dark purple the morning after. She tries to keep herself relatively quiet, but can't because everything fits and everything is all she has wished for.

He hurries his pace and the sounds that come unbidden from her lips are drowned by their frantic movements.

When they finally come undone, with her writhing underneath a volley of shallow breaths and sloppy kisses, with him watching galaxies in her eyes, everything comes crashing down. 

* * *

“This shouldn’t happen again,” he tells her a week later.

The feelings between them are dulled, muted underneath shame. Him for acting on his desires. Her for acting on her— for, for succumbing. He must be thinking of self-control and then losing it. He must be thinking of something, perhaps regret, because as much trouble his marriage has been for a while, he would never deign to betray the promise he spoke to his wife.

But, maybe, the weight of perfection felt heavy on his shoulders. 

He had sent her off after letting her cover herself. She never even looked at him as she left, closing the door to his office with a quiet click.

“Yes sir,” she replies.

* * *

It happens again. 

And again. 

And again.

Nathalie nicks the wall of his office after every tenth time, like a prisoner counting the days of their sentence. It feels like that, most days, when Gabriel lets himself take her against his desk, or his couch, or the back of his car where no one but him ever sits. 

He’s a gentleman when he _asks._

He asks! Like that will lessen the unbearable guilt she feels crawling electric up her spine, with the way he traces her scars from years past, littering the small of her back. Like that will make up for the way she lets him do as he pleases.

And yet, it does. It works. Sometimes she gives in, sometimes she doesn’t. But it’s a system, a routine— three clicks on his desk when he wants to, four when she doesn’t.

The wall ends up scruffed to the brim with marks and he is told that they are termites or some other insect. He doesn’t believe any of it.

* * *

It is at the start of winter, when Nathalie starts wearing her thick, wool coats over her red turtleneck, that Emilie Agreste abruptly dies.

It doesn’t happen like as though any expects her to die. Death _usually_ isn’t.

She dies from being shot point-blank, at the very center of her forehead. Or they assume it so, because the body is cleaned spotless after the murder that there is no trace of blood or gun powder residue in the entry wound. Just a hole covered by her blonde bangs. 

No glamour, no announcement.

A man and a gun and a woman. No one will ever know if she begged, or if she asked for repentance (for what?), or if it was just coincidence that found her there— on the steps of her home, with her mouth parted so slightly that if her eyes weren’t bloodshot, or if she _wasn’t_ by the doors of her mansion, people _might_ think she may just be asleep.

* * *

Emilie is freshly dead, and already, Gabriel has pushed his son away to grieve alone.

Nathalie blames no one but the murderer, who happened upon the wife of one of their best prosecutors. Revenge, maybe, because many wanted to settle their scores with Gabriel Agreste and his calculating ways in the courtroom. 

She is always in awe when he prosecutes— he comes and says his piece, presents his evidence and leaves the defense in tears before he exits with a flourish of the imaginary cape everyone seems to drape over his shoulders. The gallery is always so ecstatic when he arrives, and then, always so attentive when he speaks. 

Like he’s taken over everyone, placed a spell on each individual, swayed them to his side. Magic, they called it, even when his presence sent shivers down everyone’s spines. He has never lost a case, and it is through that reputation that gathered his enemies and allies alike.

His wife was something similar. Emilie held that sort of power over everyone and her husband. Magic, they said, as she flashed the public her blinding smiles and twinkled like a star stranded on Earth. Like the gold of her hair, or of the jewelry sparkling on her chest.

Nathalie tried so, _so_ hard to ignore Emilie Agreste. She was her boss’ wife, and she was someone not to be messed with. Emilie lets the world carry her over its shoulder, and the world never once minded the weight of her obsession with perfection.

Maybe that’s why she’s together with him. Perfection. 

Even their son is perfect. Little Adrien who knew nothing about Emilie and Gabriel’s fights, or how Gabriel worshipped the ground Emilie stepped on.

And now she’s dead. Whatever perfection was, it didn’t save her.

If Nathalie hadn’t been on the receiving end of Emilie’s one-sided wrath, a war she paved on her own accord, _maybe_ she would have felt pity for the woman.

* * *

The defendant of the Emilie Agreste case, the only other individual seen with the woman before her death, is a friend of hers. He was immediately detained. 

The defense attorney states that he is innocent (guilty), that he is a key witness (culprit), as he flips through his pocketbook of evidence (lies).

Prosecutor Agreste glares daggers at his colleague, who is unable to form any coherent thought regarding the case. For obvious reasons, Gabriel has been banned from taking the case as his own. Even a co-counsel was inappropriate, considering the victim.

Nathalie was similarly disallowed to be the detective in charge.

The trial lasts all three days. Nathalie is on leave for all of those three days and sits at the gallery, watching the proceedings. Gabriel listens, sitting beside Nathalie, face pinched with worry. Adrien wanted to join, but was promptly shunned by his father.

Even Adrien isn’t safe from the news outlets and the paparazzi. But he takes grief better than his father, spending the days wearing black and playing somber piano pieces that his mother adored so much. Nathalie assumes that he is at home, watching the live broadcast despite being told _not_ to.

Before the gavel is swung and the verdict is announced, the prosecutor _finally_ presents evidence contrary to everything the defense has said. The outrage that fills the gallery is unanimous, and the man, the defendant (murderer), is declared a decisive guilty verdict.

The gavel is swung and the gallery around Nathalie and Gabriel erupt in joy. No one ever questions the evidence.

The murderer is escorted out of the court without any chance of escape from the noose slowly, tightly, wrung around his neck. Nathalie thinks that the breath that Prosecutor Agreste releases, once everything is said and done, is one of relief.

It isn’t.

She learns, later, what it took for him to win.

(It was a forgery.)

Nathalie doesn’t confront him about her discovery.

* * *

A long-forgotten thought sticks to her tongue, against the rough ridges of her swollen mouth. The night after his victory, they are together again. With Nathalie above, kissing every square inch of him, tasting the tears and the fear and the relief that comes with his idea of justice.

(Not that he knows that _she_ knows.)

She remembers how plain and blunt Emilie had been when they met for the very first time.

 _Don’t think you’ll ever get a chance,_ she said, sneering at Nathalie’s expression. At the time, Nathalie knew that Emilie Agreste misunderstood everything.

_And now?_

Emilie was right to distrust her completely from the start.

Nathalie often wonders if she would have done the same were she in Emilie's place.

* * *

He lusts like he has lost over and over and Nathalie accepts it all. Cracks mar the taut of his lips, the downturn of his anger. She gives in, lets him take everything because that is all she can do now. Be his rock, his support, let him know someone is in his corner.

She cares. She shouldn’t but she does. 

_That is her mistake._ Not her first. Certainly not her last.

* * *

There is a gun on Nathalie’s bed.

Semi-automatic, three magazines (even though the gun’s empty now), on her bed. She’s staring at it, letting her eyes wander and observe it like it’ll move if she lifts her eyes off of it. 

(Not that it will. She knows this but it doesn’t stop her). 

_Detective Sancoeur,_ someone says in her head, and she takes the gun in her hands, cold steel against her skin, seeping into her pores. She points it at her mirror (at herself) and hums a tune, imaginary beats pounding against her ears as she straightens her posture, fixes her stance and click―

―goes the gun but it doesn’t go bang.

Of course, it doesn’t, wouldn’t. No magazine, only half-cocked, of course. Nathalie sighs then and does what she should have done earlier. 

Take a magazine and slide it into the rack, in place, cock the hammer now. Stare at it again and decide to hide it, slip it by your side, on the holster strapped on your leg, but―

―the doorknob to her room jiggles and instincts kick in instantly. Nathalie turns, positions herself (gun pointed at the door, either on someone’s forehead or heart, depending on their height, she’ll take that chance) and waits for it to open. Waits and waits and when it finally does she doesn’t shoot because Nathalie remembers that England isn’t nearly as dangerous as the many action movies make it out to be and there’s no danger in someone entering her hotel room.

“Sir?” Nathalie breathes out then when she sees who dragged herself into the room. She twists her head in complete surprise, would have greeted him better but can only sigh with a realization, finally lowering her gun.

“I thought you were still asleep,” a pause, “You could have knocked.”

“You’re up,” he says, misty eyes trained on the gun in her hands. Something about him is off. “Put _that_ away.”

Belatedly, she notes that the bullet would have pierced through his chest had she taken the shot. If she aimed it any higher, it would hit his forehead.

That would be ironic, considering how _Emilie_ died.

(Point-blank. A revolver. Forgery.)

“My apologies,” she murmurs, gun slipped into its holster, out of sight. Detectives often didn’t need a weapon, but her mother's small blessing, packaged in brown paper and wrapped in pink ribbon, was too good to sell away. So she got her license and she held a gun that she never used unless it was at a shooting range.

Her small .22 was not a revolver. The .44 mag was the culprit's own gun.

(His ownership papers were _forged._ Why?)

Gabriel, still looking at her, saunters close. His breath stinks of whiskey and Nathalie realizes what's about to happen before it does. She makes sure that the gun is safely in her drawer when he wraps his arms around her neck and she instinctively tilts her head so he can kiss away his distress.

* * *

He tastes like paint-thinner on her tongue, when he takes her in the small sitting room beyond the Witness Lobby, because he feels like he will implode if he keeps up this charade of fighting against his own son. She lets him, because she always has, savoring every little interaction of his touches against her skin. 

_Justice, because my friend is innocent,_ Adrien tells Gabriel, when they confront each other in the same lobby that has Nathalie begging.

Devotion, maybe it tastes like dust against his lips, maybe they burn and he lets his mouth feel the sensation of scorching, just to know that he is still alive. Outside, someone knocks, jarring and insistent, asking for Prosecutor Agreste to come back to the courtroom. They separate just in time, as the door opens and the bailiff asks once more. 

Gabriel walks away at a brisk pace, leaving her to wonder if she should follow.

Nathalie lingers by the door instead of entering.

The crowd cheers ‘Not Guilty’. She hears the gavel and then the sound of party poppers going off. She imagines Gabriel’s head, bowed in defeat, emotion placated but deep inside, overjoyed because _Adrien is_ innocent _, all is well._

* * *

Entering his office during the second anniversary of his wife’s death feels like going through her own personal hell. She faintly remembers moonshine and a rough night (the ghosts of her bruises still ache at her near touch), and then she remembers regrets and too heavy a hand against her skin. She could never forget the bitter taste of victory for her, when she holds his head against her chest, sweat-slicked and heaving. 

But Prosecutor Agreste will never forget Emilie Agreste, despite the terror she spread to him and their child. To everyone else, she is the epitome of the ever dutiful wife, sparing no expense for her family despite her growing career. 

To Gabriel, she is the glowing sun, shining with blinding ferocity, or the stars that litter an expansive dark sky, or constellations only seen from far away, or a goddess wrapped in silk and skin, in gossamer so thin he can see through the way she lights the world. 

To Adrien, she is Mother, claws wrapped around his shoulders and grip _tight,_ with kisses on his cheek and the soothing melody of her lullabies calming him. She is a heartsong, spoken and shared and sang to marigolds with innocence in their eyes. 

And to Nathalie, she is just the wife of the prosecutor Nathalie works under. The same one who she’s in a relationship right now (if whatever they have can be called that); of nights spent curled beside him, calling him by name in the confines of his office and any shared bedroom (never his home).

Nathalie knows that she will never compare.

But that was never a problem to begin with, because she never meant to.

**Author's Note:**

> hmu @ [telmes](https://telmes.tumblr.com)


End file.
